


The Mug Saga

by OrtegaTrash (Malicei)



Series: Fallen Hero Fics [7]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: Birthday Present, Fluff, How Ortega got that mug from Sidestep, M/M, Pining, Teasing, established flirting, pre-heartbreak, soft, wholesome cuteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 07:43:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18633814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malicei/pseuds/OrtegaTrash
Summary: Or: How did Ortega get the mug Sidestep gave to him?---You spend the next hour or so chatting next to the rain-streaked café window, the reflected light from the stormy weather outside hitting Ortega's face in such a way that seems almost ethereal. Like one of those renaissance angels you've seen in paintings. Warm drinks, warm hands and warm hearts under the constant sound of rain pattering on the roof.It feels like a moment trapped in amber, eternal and ever so fragile. You don't want this moment to end.[But all good things must to come to an end. This one was no exception.]





	The Mug Saga

“Ricardo Ortega, just what do you think you are doing.”

Ortega just beams up at you, an infuriatingly smug smile that speaks volumes of how arrogant he needs to be to even think he can do this to you and get away with it. He’s been taking advantage of the practice fight to get up close and personal and land a smack on your ass. “I am…hitting you?”

Heat searing through your cheeks, you give him a withering glare while  you half-heartedly try to shrug your way out of his arms. He lets you go with a pleased wink and oh, that’s it, he definitely needs to be taken down a peg.

“Ortega…” you growl, rubbing your temples before easing back into the fight. “Hitting _on_  me, more like it. And if you think this is a good demonstration of a proper restraining hold, you need to go back to school. Unless you think you think attacking villains by pulling them into an soft embrace and whispering sweet nothings in their ears about how is a fantastic strategy… in which case maybe you  _deserve_  to lose.”

“Hey,” he complains. Still just pouting while he bats your blows aside. “It’s worked before!”

Well. There’s definitely been enough photo evidence stuck up on the headquarter fridge to back that particular argument up. It annoys you a little, you don’t want to hear about how many villains he’s kissed publicly when you know you never would get the chance to be openly with him like a proper couple. Holding hands. Giving each other intimate looks. Sweet kisses without having to worry about who’s out there watching you.

Even if…even if he could find it in himself to give up his womanising ways, it’s not like you would ever have a chance with him. Being born the way you were.

You’re not envious or resentful of that. Not at all.

_…Shit!_

Where did _that_ thought come from?

Dealing with your feelings is a challenge at the best of times, let alone when you’re feeling…whatever it is you and Ortega have.

You’ve been working together for a fair while now. He keeps nagging at you to join the Rangers and be a proper part of his team so he doesn’t keep getting heat for playing with vigilantes like you, but it’s not like you could even think of submitting yourself to a background check without wanting to change your name, fleeing into the woods and never seeing human life again. Steel would never budge on that regardless of how much Anathema or Ortega might talk you up.

Ortega…

It’s Ortega you want to work with ultimately, anyway; the others are just nice to work with sometimes. You two have a good thing going on, why ruin it? A fun, teasing friendship is all it could ever be. No matter how much you might enjoy it. No matter the dreams you have…

You retreat from your thoughts just in time to see his fist going straight for your stomach.

Oof!

Focus, you need to focus!

You wheeze,  groaning as you grasp your stomach protectively. That’s what happens when you allow yourself to be distracted by him, your reflexes just aren’t good enough to go up against him without your full concentration when you’re just sparring - let alone in a proper fight.

He looms over you with an amused smile. “Didn’t realise I was so good looking I took your breath away,” he teases, holding out a hand to help you up.

You give a long suffering sigh and oh, that was a bad idea. Your body still burns and it just eggs Ortega’s grin on.  "In your dreams, asshole.“

"Ooh, you’ve been having dreams about me, huh?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” No matter how much you grumble you can’t seem to wipe the grin off your face. He’s too contagious. They should put him in quarantine so he doesn’t infect the world with his…Ortega-ness.

Well, It’s definitely too late for you. You’re definitely not patient 0 to have succumbed to his charms in this scenario, now you just have to ride out the symptoms.

Apparently they include heart-sickness, because what other reason could there be for the way your heart races when he looks at you like this? When he treats you like you actually matter. It’s so easy to get addicted to the way he makes everyone he meets feel like you’re special to him, they all fall helplessly into his arms without him even trying.

And maybe you are just another statistic, only interesting for the fact that you’re a new challenge for him - but you don’t exactly care. Begging for scraps isn’t exactly new to you even if you are loathe to admit it. He will disappear - they always do once they find out just how much of a dysfunctional mess you are -  but, for now…

For now you will allow yourself to linger a little too long and indulge in the physical contact. A gift to yourself, to remind you that you are alive and you have the option of choosing. To let your fingers run over his and trace his knuckles before shaking it off at Ortega’s dumb goofy smile.

You can’t let him think you like him  _that_  much. “You’re such an asshole, doing this to me…”

“Doing what? Beating you in spars?”

Huffing, you take a step back and fall into a defensive position as you circle him, ready to react to any sudden movements. “Oh come on now.” you mutter. “Don’t try and deflect.”

“Wait, what?” He blinks, tilting his head at you.

That brings a frown of consternation to your face. “You know what I am talking about. Don’t play dumb, you need that last functioning braincell of yours.”

Ortega looks genuinely confused.  _Shit_. Maybe he doesn’t know.

Maybe flirting and teasing is all you have but that doesn’t mean he should be allowed to make you feel the things that you do when he just throws it in your face like this.

That’s why you take the time to make a particularly wicked jab to his side… which he dodges neatly, the bastard. There’s no stopping the frown that washes over your face, because he’s always taken too many risks and played with his life freely. “You….why are you such an idiot!” you admit, frustrated. “Some day some asshole will take advantage of your feelings and lure you in with a kiss before stabbing you in the back. Don’t you…don’t you have any sense of self preservation?”

Your voice cracks a little at the end, because you have worried about it before. He doesn’t have any concern about his own well-being and so it’s up to you watch out for him. It really doesn’t help when he throws himself into danger the way he does.

“Hey- Don’t tell me you are worried about me?” Ortega’s stopped and stepped back a little to take a proper look at you. You can feel his gaze run over you, drinking you in and making you blush.

“You smiled when you said that, should I take that to mean you liked it?”

“…Maybe.”

“You do!” he crows. Arrogant jerk.

You deflate with a sigh, this isn’t going anywhere. “Ricardo Ortega, you are really something else…”

He just winks at you. “Only good things, I hope? Also, it’s not fair, how come you get to use the power of my full name when I still only know you by what the press  and everyone else and their mothers know? I’m beginning to think I’m not even that special to you.” he mutters balefully, though the playful gleam in his eye as he flutters his eyelashes at you gives him away. “Am I just like all the other girls to you?”

Oh  _come on._  That exaggerated swoon wasn’t even good acting, dammit.

“You wish.” While he’s too distracted trying to fluster you to concentrate, you take advantage of his momentary inattention and sweep his leg out from under him.

“Ow!” he complains. “Okay, you got me there.”

“That’s what you get for not paying attention.”

“I guess I do.” Ortega laughs it off as always. In a single swift movement he’s back on his feet and falls into the flow of the fight again. Show-off. “You’re good at being distracting.”

You deliberately ignore the innuendo he manages to add into his voice and his dumb suggestive eyebrows. “Of course I am. I wouldn’t be half as good at defeating villains if I didn’t get them to mess up by starting an evil monologue on exactly what their evil plans are.”

He nods approvingly as he moves in to grab you in a hold, pinning you down. Without your edge of telepathy warning you what moves people are going to make you might as well just be a normal, well-trained human around him. The both of you roll slightly as you wrestle for control but you’re soon knocked to the ground and he’s breathless, smiling.

And so are you.

“Do you yield?”

As if you would make it that easy. “Never.”

He’s so close, his grip on you relaxing, becoming something more tender. Intimate. You breath catches with his as he gazes down at you from above.

As you both realise what this looks like.

Your cheeks aren’t flushing red. They aren’t. Shit, this is too much. Too dangerous. Too real. He’s looking at you like he actually cares about you and that… you don’t think you could bear that, if it were true.

So you let the tiniest bit of a wicked grin slip onto his face, taking satisfied joy in his alarmed face before you knee him in the stomach.

“Oof!” Even as winded as he is, he can’t stop smiling.

“Payback hurts, doesn’t it?” The scowl on your face just makes his grin wider. You shake your head. Weirdo.

“Okay, okay,” he huffs. “That was a good one.”

“Yield?”

“Going to need to try harder than that!” he manages, before crawling to get back up again. He never knows when to stay down, the idiot.

It take a good ten more minutes before Ortega thoroughly thrashes you to the ground and you start to wipe yourselves off. Ortega looks genuinely thoughtful as he glances at you.

Why do you get a feeling of dread in the pits of your stomach when he does that. It was never a good sign when he was starting to look questioningly at you like that…

Casually, Ortega creeps closer while affecting the most nonchalant air, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Why he even bothers, you don’t know - it never works on his mother and it certainly doesn’t work on you. His eyes never leave you. “You know, you could just take a shower here at headquarters. Isn’t it annoying having to go home just to shower?”

It is, but it’s not like you can shower out in the open in these public showers. There aren’t even doors to hide behind, you’d have to shower fully clothed to not give away your secrets. “I don’t like showering in public. Feels too exposed,” you admit instead.

“I promise not to peek?” Ortega answers, taking a swig from his water bottle. “We’re the only ones here at this time at night, anyway. There’s no one to worry about.”

“Sorry, but I’m just not comfortable. Plus, who knows what horrible things people get up to in those showers…”

“We’re not teenagers anymore!” Ortega protests. “I’m sure nothing…well.  _Too_ bad…goes on in them.”

Withering under your knowing gaze, he backtracks. “Okay, okay. Ahahaha, anyway,” he continues. “I was thinking…”

“-Always a bad sign.”

Ortega winces a little as he puts his hands up in mock surrender. “It just hit me earlier. You already know my full name and where I live and you’ve met my mother, and I realise I don’t even really know what much about you. I just feel bad at how one-sided that is, what kind of friend am I?” If he notices the stiffness you’re beginning to hold, he doesn’t comment on it. “We’ve been working together for a while now and yet I don’t even know your real name.”

His voice is soft. Encouraging. Asking for a little trust from you since he’s shared so much of himself already. That isn’t too much to ask, is it?

It is. You can’t risk it.

But you can’t explain any of this to the man before you and Ortega is still waiting for you to say something. You deliberately look at anyplace else but at him. “I guess that’s true what you say. It’s not like I talk about myself much…”  you admit, mumbling out a non-answer.

Of course Ortega takes hold of that admission and runs with it. “Yes! Exactly that!” he exclaims, punctuating this point by jabbing at the air. “Someone around here needs to pull you out of your shell, I think, and you are going to have to deal with my stubbornness until you give in.”

“What?”

Ortega is bright-eyed and earnest. “It feels so impersonal calling you by your codename. I mean, everyone calls you that, but that’s only the name of your secret identity…”

He’s clearly trying to lead you into revealing a bit more about yourself. You don’t take the bait.

Shit. Shit shit shit.

This was beginning to head into dangerous waters, he wasn’t supposed to actually care about who was behind the mask. That’s what the secret identity thing was for. In any case, he is clearly hugely mistaken because this mask is supposed to be your face and whatever was underneath was just supposed to be your secret civilian identity to get around without notice.

But no. Ortega keeps wanting to know the person underneath the mask and the secret truth is there is nothing, nobody underneath. Only the delusions of personhood. You have to be Sidestep, because then you have a role and purpose and without that, what are you?

A being with delusions of humanity. Personhood. Little more than smoke in the wind.

Ortega is too friendly, too pushy, too curious to take no for an answer and you’re not sure you even want to keep holding up these walls. Even though that was the safe thing to do. The smart thing to do.

But he just keeps looking at you with those warm, warm eyes, so deep and brown and open that you start feeling these damn tendrils of feelings for the first time. Softness. Disbelief that anyone would actually care. Hope.

**_[So hopelessly naïve.]_ **

Hope is dangerous. It’s gotten you here, it’d given you this chance of a life - and you can still scarcely believe it. It still feels utterly surreal to go into a store and buy groceries and make small talk with the cashier without the constant pressure of knowing that your performance is being monitored and you’ll be sitting the subsequent few hours out being lectured on your evaluation.

You’re not really sure what all these feelings mean, to be honest. Of course they’d given you a comprehensive education on how to identify emotions and fake them at the Farm, but understanding the ins and outs of emotions intellectually is different from feeling them yourself.

You’re more intimately acquainted with the negative ones. Far, far, too well acquainted.

“Sidestep?” You’ve been quiet too long. Ortega’s looking up at you as he hesitates, unsure if he’s accidentally gone too far. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean- if you’re not comfortable giving out your identity, I understand, I didn’t mean to press-”

You force yourself to answer. “It’s fine. I’m just…a very private person. Maybe just a little paranoid.” Is it really paranoia if they’re actually out to get you? “It’s nothing personal,” you add apologetically, even though you didn’t really have anything to apologise for.

“No, no. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

You both look a little uncertain before you get a little nervous at the way he’s studying you. Like he could pick you apart if he just stared long enough. It…it makes you feel a bit vulnerable to be honest, not knowing what he’s thinking.  What he’s feeling. You can’t tell sometimes and it feels a bit like walking on tightrope over a chasm, knowing that you have nothing to fall back except your own wits.

Not that Ortega would ever let you fall. The stubborn idiot would probably try and catch you and fall to his death along with you  while trying to save you.

**_~~[You know better now.]~~ _ **

That’s partly why you don’t tell him, because you know he would try to help. He’s too caring like that, always getting his nose into other people’s business and getting in over his head. You know because you’ve had to bail him out more than once from those very situations.

_**[It hurts it hurts it hurts I don’t want to remember I can never forget]** _

Ortega looks at you with such concern in his eyes. Like he actually thinks you’re his friend. You’ve never had a friend before…it’s still so strange to know he has your back, that you can always count on him to save your hide. It’s…nice.

**_[I honestly, sincerely believed in heroes.  I thought we could make a change, I thought heroes really could save us all.]_ **

The other reason for not telling him is a more personal, selfish reason.

Ortega doesn’t know the truth, the truth that you know you could never tell anyone. It’s your silent burden to bear. Really, that makes it sound more selfless than it truly is - for the fact of it all is, you are afraid. Telling him the truth about your situation would mean revealing the truth about yourself and you’re not sure you could take it if he reacted badly. 

You don’t want to lose him.

And you would, if he truly understood you.

Is it so wrong to be selfish, sometimes? You never had the chance to have anything of your own before. If it means a friendship built on the foundations of deceit and illusions, well. It’s all you can have. It’s all you could ever have. Your stolen freedom has always been something you’ve known wouldn’t last.

One day they will come for you and you know you won’t win that battle. Maybe you might get lucky once or twice, maybe you could even evade their notice for a good amount of time.

Eventually you will wear down. The Farm won’t.

_**[ I trusted you I trusted you I hoped for so long]** _

Haven’t you earnt the right to be selfish for once?

_**[I  thought you’d come for me]** _

He…he’s the very first friend you’ve ever had. If he were to find out and-

And-

_-The looks of fear and disgust, rising back in alarm. Not human oh god, what is that THING it’s a monster! Someone help-_

_-A hand reaching for a phone-_

_No, you can’t let them, you can’t let them take away your freedom please not now you’ve fought too hard for it. Eyes rolling to backs of their heads, one hits the corner of a table as he falls. You barely manage to catch him and let him down gently but there’s so so so much blood she’s so afraid she’s screaming you’re so scared_

_no no no you didn’t mean to let your guard down you didn’t think there was anyone here you just wanted to shut your mind up for a bit_

_-So hard to breathe blood flowing down your nose it’s going to  kill us! I don’t want to die-_

_Baby crying in the next room finally awake  and howling with fear at hearing his mother scream_

_I’m sorry I’m sorry I have to do this_

_please sleep now_

_-No no please please please don’t hurt us why are you hurting me I don’t understand-_

_Silence. Oh god, what if- No. No, please, you don’t want to be like them._

_Panicking, you take a moment to concentrate and find the fading wisps of their minds and it hurts it hurts it hurts but you have no choice, you can’t let them go. You dive into their minds, too weak to fight back against your forced intrusion, you swim towards the memories burnt freshly into their minds. Emotional memories are always harder to truly get rid of, a complex web interwoven through the brain that strike the amygdala like smashing through glass for an alarm. Bits tend to linger and trigger emotional flashbacks without them being able to understand why they feel that way. Trauma is complicated like that._

_You take hold and grip tightly and annihilate all you can find related to the memories away and it’s brute work without any of finesse you’d like. They don’t deserve this, they were just at the wrong place at the wrong time, you’re out on the streets  homeless and starving and really just needed a good long shower. So tired so worn you should have been more alert_

_this is all your fault_

_**[You were too weak, you didn’t yet understand how to simply erase them like they were never there. Now they are a reminder. You learnt to be strong, so it could never happen again.]** _

_The regret in your heart isn’t a good enough apology for what you’ve  done. The brain is more delicate than people are comfortable with. It doesn’t take much, a little smack to the head and the results can be devastating. They’ll never really be fully functional again but he’s recovered enough to resume his job_  (even if keeps having nightmares about the void, you erased his memories and now it’s all he has, he is so empty so broken so lost)  _and she’s relearning how to walk and talk_ (she just wanted to run and scream and you took that away from her she will never escape what you’ve done.)

_You monster._

**_[You were deluded if you thought you would be anything else.]_ **

“-Sidestep. Sidestep! Hey, it’s okay. Please. Will you look at me?” Ortega’s worried face swims into view through a blue and you realise you’re shaking. Badly. “I didn’t know it was such painful topic for you. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kept pushing.”

_**[So vulnerable. So soft. So eager to believe. No wonder they took you like a lamb to the slaughter.]** _

Why are you like this. He wasn’t supposed to care about you. You thought he’d just taken pity on you, the lone vigilante running around the city by yourself.

Instead you went and got attached. You are so, so, dumb.

Yet you can’t stay away. It’s addictive, this little song and dance you two do. Makes you almost feel like you could be a person worth caring about…but you couldn’t have that. That’s why you cannot let it become anything more than that. Turning away, you shake your head and the memories off with it.

_**[…Why didn’t you save me?]** _

“…No, it’s not that. It’s nothing, it’s just me being just a mess. You don’t need to worry about me.”

That just prompts a frown as he leans towards you, too sympathetic, too willing to care. He shouldn’t. He wouldn’t, if he knew what you really are.

“Well you know me,” he starts. “Too stubborn for my own good. You’re going to be worried over whether you like it or not, because you are my friend and I care about you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

Ortega pauses. Then, drawing his words out as if he can’t even believe he has to say them: “Sorry? What do you mean by that?”

“I’m saying that you don’t need to feel obligated to care about me. Just because you think it’s your duty as marshal to look after young vigilantes and take care of them doesn’t mean…well.  I can handle myself, you know.”

Surprised eyes flutter back at you. “I never said you couldn’t. But isn’t it better to know you have someone backing you up in a fight? Having someone around to watch your back…”

“-Is nice, but you don’t need to protect me. I’m fine,” you answer. “Please don’t worry about me, Ricardo.”

He visibly deflates at that, though his eyes are still wide and brow scrunched up in concern. “…I can’t not worry about you when you say things like that.”

“What? Why?”

“You know what I mean. That I shouldn’t care.” A pause, Ortega looks like he’s unsure about if he’s overstepping but barges on with a look of determination. “You are _important_  to me, Sidestep, and nothing you say or do will change that.”

Oh. Oh no, no, no. You’re beginning to feel some dangerous feelings with all this heartfelt talk and you swing to deflect with insults to keep from having to deal with them. “Sentimental idiot.”

A self-deprecating smile. “Yup, that’s me.”

God. He’s so infuriating with the way he can just switch modes so quickly and still look like a million dollars despite being a sweaty mess. All this talking has been straying too close into things you don’t want to think of, so you mumble “Just hit me.”

“Huh?”

You raise your head up at him, daring him to take you on. “I thought we came here to train, not talk?”

“You are so reluctant to talk,” he complains, even as he swings a right hook at you and you barely scrape past his fist. “Such a mystery. You’d think I was pulling a tooth the way I have to drag words out of your mouth.”

“If you keep blabbering on you’re going to be the one spitting teeth out, old man.” You’re smiling despite yourself.

“ _Old man_ …you just wait, I’ll teach you just how well these ‘old’ muscles work!”

You can’t help yourself. The faux-outraged look on his face with his hands on his hips makes him look just like his mother when she’s  admonishing him across the room. You burst into giggles and though he gives a little glare and a half-hearted “Hey!” in protest he’s quickly infected by your amusement and starts laughing himself.

“What is so funny, anyway?” Ortega all but pouts at you. Such a drama queen.

Fine, if he wants to know so badly. “You looked exactly like your mother just then. Complete with the pink apron and the chancla in her hand standing ready…”

“Don’t say such a horrible thing!” He gives a mock shiver while leaning back in exaggerated horror. “That thing should be classified as a deadly weapon, not a shoe. I don’t even know how she arcs it around corners? It shouldn’t be possible, I think she breaks the laws of physics.”

“You should get her to join the team. All the villains would run away and wet their pants in fear.”

“Ha! Either that, or she lures them in with promises of dinner and overfeeds them until they explode.”

“Truly, a horrible fate.”

You’re both grinning at each other, Ortega with relieved laughter as you rub your eyes. Trust Ortega to make you want to cry and laugh in less than a minute.

_**[You shouldn’t have let him in. You have only ever hurt the people you love.]** _

_**[You were so, so selfish.]** _

_**[You’ve paid dearly for your mistakes.]** _

* * *

Ortega is smiling at you and it feels dangerously intimate.

“Do you know what day it is, Sidestep?” he asks.

You take a moment to fake pondering for a second before giving a deliberately slow, innocent shrug. You know perfectly well what day it is but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of playing along. “Hm, I don’t know. I think it’s Thursday?”

That gets you a snort and an elbow to the ribs. It was worth it, you think.

He clasps his hands on the table in front of you and gives you a wide smile. “No- wait, yes. Is it Thursday? Maybe? I- That’s not the point,” he huffs. “Today is my birthday.”

“Another year older, another year closer to the grave, old man.” You hold up your coffee cup mockingly in toast to the occasion.

“Always so optimistic.”

“I like to think of it as being realistic. Besides, who else would keep you from getting such a big head? It might explode if it keeps going like this.”

“And we can’t have that. Of course.”

“Of course not,” you fire back. “The brain splatter would be horrible to get out of your suit.. Why did you choose blue and white anyway? Doesn’t it stain badly when you get blood on it?”

Ortega’s answering expression is warm. So open, so happy to play along in this little dance of yours you always do with him. “I didn’t exactly get a choice, the Rangers fashion team chose it. And besides, I have a good dry cleaner!” he retorts, looking sheepish.

You raise an eyebrow. Defensive, huh. “Or is it the case that you actually have hundreds of ruined  outfits that have white bits that turned pink from failed blood removal attempts?”

The answer is a bit too quick in coming. “No! Of course not, how could you even say that, ahahaha.”

The corners of your lips are rising and you don’t care enough to stop them. “You do, don’t you?” you realise. Maybe you’re taking a little too much glee in his misfortune, you can’t help it. It’s rare you get the better of Ortega.

“I- Okay, maybe I have one-”

“-I knew it!-”

“-But, but definitely not hundreds! I don’t even know where I would get that many uniforms from, I don’t ruin enough suits to need so many I could equip an army.”

A chuckle rises out of your throat, unbidden. “With the amount of scrapes you get into, I’m surprised you don’t. Charging around like a bull at a matador…remember the time with the modded guy at the docks who lured you into charging full speed into a wall?”

Ortega groans. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

“Nope.”

“Figures.”

You spend the next hour or so chatting next to the rain-streaked café window, the reflected light from the stormy weather outside hitting Ortega’s face in such a way that seems almost ethereal. Like one of those renaissance angels you’ve seen in paintings. Warm drinks, warm hands and warm hearts under the constant sound of rain pattering on the roof.

It feels like a moment trapped in amber, eternal and ever so fragile. You don’t want this moment to end.

**_[But all good things must to come to an end. This one was no exception.]_ **

“I’m just going to the bathroom,” Ortega tells you as he pushes the remains of his birthday cake towards you. You’re such a bad influence on him, ruining his diet. “You can have the rest.”

He knows you too well. “Indulging my sweet tooth?”

A little wink in reply. “It’s only appropriate for someone as sweet as you, right?”

“Really?” You snort and roll your eyes deliberately for him to see. Oh, he thinks he’s so smooth? “That was bad, even for you.”

“Too cheesy? Might have been the grilled cheese sandwich from earlier-  _Hey!_ ” He dodges the crumpled ball you make of the receipt with so little effort it makes you grumble a bit.

“Go take care of business!”

“Yes, yes,” he squeezes out as you push him out of the bench. “Okay, I’m going, I’m going!”

Honestly. Always needing to have the last word.

Now you can finally enact your plan. The box you kept so carefully hidden in your backpack comes out and you beckon the watching waitress over with the coffee jug. You’d let her in on your little plan before he arrived and she fulfils her role perfectly as you surreptitiously pull a mug out of the box it was packaged in and hold it out for her to fill.

Just one more thing to do. Pulling out a scrap of paper from your pocket, you go to write out your message.

_HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OLD MAN,_  it reads.  _CONGRATULATIONS ON BEING ONE FOOT CLOSER TO THE GRAVE. DON’T MAKE IT SOONER THAN IT NEEDS TO BE._

_-YOUR FRIEND,_

You pause. What are you to him exactly? More than an ally or teammate. You don’t want the connotations of signing it off with something as cheesy like “love” either, nor the clinical feeling  of “regards” here…

Nibbling your lower lip, you cross out the word FRIEND.

Urgh. You don’t have time to have a mini-crisis about what you have between you two, you just need to stop being dumb…

…Oh.  _That_  would do.

_-YOUR ~~FRIEND~~ , IDIOT,   
MIKAEL HANSSON_

There. The nosy jerk had been asking about it so much you decided it was time to actually let him know your name.

It’s…it’s not the name given to you, they won’t find it on any of those giant databases if he cares to look it up. At least not you, there might be a few people with your chosen name floating around out there. You don’t know. You didn’t have time to properly do a thorough check when you made your new identity, your debut into the real world marked with frozen terror and anxiety you hide under a calm, pleasant mask. Just like they taught you.

They taught you how to live a masquerade, so it seems only fitting that the your true final exam will be your best performance yet. You have to live this lie and wear this mask until your face fills in to fit it.

The letters stare back at you in harsh ballpoint ink.

It’s not much, but it’s yours. You’ve never really had anything just for yourself before. It feels like such a luxury to actually be able to own anything to give to people.

The smile on your face creeps up on you despite yourself as you enact the final stage of your plan.

* * *

Ortega returns to find the table minus one Sidestep and plus one innocent steaming mug of coffee.

“Wha- I can’t believe it, don’t tell me you left me to pay the bill, asshole!”

You can pinpoint the moment he catches sight of the mug because his indignant confusion turns to surprise and then melts into genuine delight.

'HAPPY BIRTHDAY’, the crumpled piece of paper reads. It’s tucked neatly under the special limited edition Marshal Charge mug, you had been there with Ortega as he did the photoshoot for the children’s charity it came from. It’d taken all you willpower to keep from snickering as they presented a bewildered Ortega with increasingly more creative poses in front of a green-screen in a more 'traditional’ version of his superhero uniform.

Aka, underwear over a bodysuit. You weren’t really sure exactly why they needed him to then lose the bodysuit and start doing provocative 'come hither’ poses in only the  _Official Marshal Charge Tightey Whiteys with Mobile Charger_ ™ but the smiles gathered you a pleased, smug grin from Ortega himself as he directed his expressions at you.

Damn arrogant asshole. That’s why you got the mug where he’d genuinely tripped from one of the kittens escaping from the cardboard tree he was 'rescuing’ them from and he has a stupid, dumb surprised expression on his face.

It always makes you grin to think of it.

You’re interrupted from your thoughts from a bark of laughter as Ortega presumably catches sight of the rest of the message. You’d taken inspiration for that bit from seeing the man the table over flirt blatantly with the waitress before leaving his number on the tip.

There’s a fond, indulgent look on his face and it brings more feelings into your gut than you know how to deal with. He looks all around for you before spotting you not-so-inconspicuously hiding behind one of the pillars trying to hide your grin.

“You didn’t really believe you could dine and dash on me, did you?” he laughs as comes over and embraces you tightly. “I didn’t think you had it in you, writing 'CALL ME’ with your name and number. ”

You look away, too red to look him in the eye even as he holds close. Like something precious. He’s always been so earnest in his emotions. “You know I would outrun you, old man. So, the great Marshal Charge is down to catching petty food thieves now?” you tease, trying to will your heart to settle. “Didn’t know you were such a cheapskate.”

His answering wink as he reluctantly releases you from his embrace makes your stomach flutter. “Oh I don’t know if it’s so petty. I think this thief has stolen my heart,” he whispers wickedly as he pulls away.

“Ricardo!” Oh no. Oh no no no.

You are not blushing, you are not having these traitorous feelings. Not for Ortega. Don’t ruin this. You know he would flirt with a sock puppet if it could talk. That’s just how he is, you are nothing special.

Your brain tells you one thing and your heart just doesn’t want to listen. Stupid body, going and having feelings. You can see the way he’s enjoying how he can have such an effect on you, eyes warm with mirth at your expense.

So he thinks he can tease you like that with no repercussions? Well. Two can play at that game. You might not have always enjoyed the….education…you were given, but it certainly comes in handy at times. Tilt your head up at the right angle, looking up under your eyelashes.  Wide eyes, softened face. The picture of innocence.

Good. No one’s looking this way and it shouldn’t be too hard to gently redirect the old man in the corner who feels like heading towards you to use the bathroom. You still don’t have the best control yet but it’s simple to make him think he saw someone enter the single stall with an upset stomach and that he should try the disabled toilets next door.

Ortega’s eyes are very wide as he takes in your approach, pupils dilated. This is just to get back at him, right? It’s just revenge for always being so flirty. See if he likes having the tables turned on him.

“Maybe you’re right,” you begin slyly. “Maybe I have been  _bad._  The big bad villain running away with my thieving hands full of stolen things.”

“Oh?” he breathes, eyes wide and terribly excited. This is out of character for you, being so forward. Usually you’re too busy worrying about keeping a low profile to dare even think of doing such a thing. “And what exactly have those thieving hands been getting into?”

You can’t help it, he looks far too amused and pleased at your antics to not want to take him down a peg. It doesn’t take much for you to pull him into the darkened space behind the pillar while on the lookout for wandering eyes.

“Hm, I don’t know,” you begin with a shy smile.  "A lot of things, really….“

It also doesn’t take much to bring a hand up and stroke his cheek to distract him from where your other hand is wandering. The flicker of his eyes downwards and the warm blush spreading across his face tells you he can feel the way you reach around, teasing, merciless, as you go to cup his ass…

Aaaand swiftly yoink his wallet out of his back pocket so quickly he only has time to give you an outraged look.  _Like a cat thrown face-first into a bathtub,_  you think as you sprint giggling out the back door.

Oh, that was _fun._  You wondered how long it would take for Ortega to shame-facedly reveal he couldn’t pay before the waitress let him in on the fact you’d paid the bill beforehand with a tidy tip for playing along with your little game.

It was his birthday, after all. You shouldn’t be  _too_  mean to him.

But only for today. Just because it’s his birthday, and he needs something to compensate him for becoming more of an old man. You couldn’t let him get too spoilt and think you actually liked him or anything.

You really don’t know. All you know is when Ortega lives up to his name and comes charging around the corner red-faced clutching his new mug delicately and with a coffee stain all over his previously pristine white outfit, you burst out in laughter and you’ve never felt so open. So filled with joy and delight.

"I can’t believe you just did that!” he scolds. Shaking his head at your antics with a sigh. “Tricking me like that…thank you for the gift though, I love it.”

You’re not used to being thanked, it still makes you uncomfortable. It was just a stupid, dumb joke mug anyway. Apparently your first instinct is just to deflect from actually confronting your feelings and tease him again. “Really? I thought you had better taste than tacky souvenir quality mugs of yourself,” you joke. “I should have know you were a narcissist. I bet you even wear your own fan t-shirt merchandise.”

When Ortega looks away with a “Well…”, your smile only increases.

“Oh, wow.  _Really?_ ”

“What’s the point of having your own merchandise if you can’t use it?” He gives an innocent, shameless shrug. “Besides, it’s fun!”

“You’re incorrigible.” Despite what your words might say, your traitorous heart reveals the truth of what you feel. Like it’s burst and swollen up to fill your chest with these strange, novel feelings.  _Is…is this what happiness is?_

Ortega is…Ortega is staring at you like he’s never really seen you before. Just watching your face with - you hate to even think of it- downright  _tender_ fascination. It makes your cheeks feel too warm, your mouth gape open only slightly as you struggle for something to say in the face of those soft, soft eyes.

What are you supposed to do when he looks at you like that? Like he…

Like he actually…likes you.

_Such an idiot,_ you think, fondly.

Maybe…maybe things are going to be alright. Maybe things really are going to work out like Ortega says. He doesn’t know what you’re going through exactly, but he knows there are things troubling you.

That. That would be nice. Maybe you can really have a future as a hero, even if you can’t be a ranger like the others. It’s fine, it’s better if you don’t have the spotlight anyway. You don’t want to bring any undue attention onto yourself.

It’s fine. It’s all fine. It has to be.

This is more than someone like you could have ever dared dream for and you are so, so hopeful for the future. It’s as fragile like a butterfly’s cocoon, spun out of the finest golden threads of promise. Hope.

**_[You were so, so naïve.]_ **

The tears are rolling down your face and you don’t bother to do anything to stop them.

**_[You miss it. You miss him so, so much you couldn’t stand it. Heartbreak changed you forever.]_ **

A hand on your shoulder, while you bury your face into his. “H-hey? Are you- are you crying?”

**_[You tore your heart out and threw every bit that ever cared about him away.]_ **

“I think I’m  _happy,_ ” you whisper, and you think you actually mean it.


End file.
